


To Bury Black-Blue Blossoms

by deifiedrogue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Hogwarts, Second War with Voldemort, Spinner's End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 04:39:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3715366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deifiedrogue/pseuds/deifiedrogue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus has made an art of concealing bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Bury Black-Blue Blossoms

_I.  Spinner’s End, 1967_

If eyes are windows, then hair can be curtains, as black hair hides blackened eyes in shadows . . . better than shadows—behind walls. Bruises can be hidden behind walls. Within walls. As wallpaper peels like scabs picked away, so can bruises blossom in unseen corners, collecting water in dark stains. Hidden too easily. Only if he bothered to strip it back could he see the black rot that ate at it, straight into its soul. He spent a lot of time in those corners, where no one could see. Behind curtains of dark hair, fresh bruises had become his young skin. 

_II.  Hogwarts, 1973_

Ink stains, he told her, if they looked smudgy and black-bluish. She could believe it when they were faint and faded. For the more yellow-brownish ones, he’d claim smears of mud from the hothouses, or dirt from chopping up roots. The green-edged types were harder. Grass stains from rough-housing on the grounds with the boys, a broomstick scrimmage. She would look more skeptical, then, and he would think she’d begun to suspect. But if she did, she didn’t say anything—just casted him a sideways glance from time to time, searching his face, his arms when pale skin unintentionally revealed itself.

_III.  An Undisclosed Location, 1980_

He couldn’t have been more gobsmacked if God himself had struck him. The Dark Lord had always punished His followers, but distantly, with an air of detachment—a flick of His wand and they’d be writhing at His feet. But this punishment had been far more . . . intimate. He had slapped him, hard across the face, as a father would a son. A bruise was beginning to blossom, but he couldn’t show the others. They would grow jealous, attempt to usurp his position. No, he couldn’t let that happen. He was the favored one now. The right hand. The most beloved son.

_IV.  Hogwarts, 1996_

A bone-breaking Cruciatus left trembling aches in his skeleton long after the curse had ceased. His slowly accumulating years seemed to add to the weight of the burden. Electric aftershocks sparked deep through his marrow as heavy iron chains twisted and strained against his vertebrae. His knees gave as he walked and walked and walked through a dark corridor of eternity. Upon reaching the privacy of his secluded dungeon rooms, he finally collapsed to the stone floor, shaking and feverish. Beneath his skin, he could feel a thousand capillaries burst. But he knew he’d conceal the bruises easily come morning.


End file.
